Something so pleasing to the eye,
Something that can not be touched,
Now stands in front of you and I
As if begging to be touched.
Spare it my love from abolition,
One caress to pieces will shred,
What is real or apparition,
Spirit's water and its bread.
It can only in its solitude,
From every want secluded,
Poison mind's fortitude
Or be for deep comfort suited.
Now that will is fully crushed,
Now that mind 's by freedom stolen,
You can see that which is brushed
And by another world is woven.
But sweetest pleasure that it brings
Always with it carries pain,
As it is with all best things,
Melancholy cleans the brain.

She said she wanted to make love on death bed of rock n roll,
She wanted on this bed till end of times to **** and roll,
She wanted our love to take us to the place where ******* fails,
She wanted to scratch my very lungs out with her nails.

She wanted to make sweet love until our world was born anew
She wanted to make love like has done not even a few.
She wanted us to love to place where words have no meaning,
She wanted our love to mark new divine beginning.

And any kind of music, any combo of drugs, any kind of life, even words of Dante,
Compared to our love is nothing but a pain.
She wants to go to place of no return, and then return
And do it all again.

With eyes scratched by blood, looked into dark
The little child that walked alone in woods,
Her ears hurt much as she heard the dogs bark;
She saw her mother silhouetted in interludes,

Every direct look she took brought her death,
To escape the darkness she closed her eyes,
Walked along and cried out with every breath,
Kinetically clefts of wood and sounds of flies

Led her way, but she knew not where it led,
Intermingled voices of her mother and her father
With authoritative tones from which she fled,
Now sounded sweeter but she still moved further.

Stream of time, though invisible, untouchable,
Bears power of most destructive kind.
That's why I'm happy your death
Was so untimely, unreasonable.
So your immortal beauty same remains in mind.

The Glass in your bedroom was a ticking clock,
In mornings you looked at, with sad eyes;
Always worrying some day old aged
Face they'd see and mock;
That some day your grace will no more mesmerize.

Now that your rotting skin by no eye is found,
Are not you happy you are underground?